


Late Nights

by MaryTylerMorgue



Series: Frank Castle | Reader [1]
Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryTylerMorgue/pseuds/MaryTylerMorgue
Summary: Frank is late again and the Reader worries.





	Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. ;-)
> 
> Originally posted on my tumblr.

 

**8:02**

You’re nervous as you shoot a quick glance at the clock and back again before sitting against the alcove of the window. You can see the street. The black pavement glistening with rain against the neon sign of Joe’s bar and the random passing car. 

But no Frank. 

He was late.

Two minutes late for a normal person would be nothing. But for _him_... for the trouble that always seems to find him, two minutes feels like two lifetimes.

With each tick of the clock, you remember other late nights, other bloody and broken returns. You remembered the night he’d come home an hour late with broken wrist and blood on his hands that didn’t belong to him.

**8:47**

You’re still seated in the window, afraid that if you look away you’ll miss him. Your heart pounds now. A thunderous percussion against your ribs that echoes in your ears. You breathe deeply and push away the memory of a spitting angry Frank as he stumbled through the door with a bullet hole in his shoulder.

You shudder at the memory of all the blood that had soaked the carpet.

Where is he? Is he dead?

**9:51**

Your hands shake and you find it harder to swallow and you think for sure that he’s dead. You pace the little apartment in your pajamas and can’t help but remember the night he’d shown up clutching his side, his face barely recognizable.

He’d taken on too many that night. He’d won but he’d been so hurt.

It had taken weeks to recover.

**10:17**

You’re stomach rolls and you think you might be sick as gruesome images replay over and over. You sit on the couch and try to calm down.

**12:41**

You feel like crying. 

**1:07**

You do cry.

**1:13**

The floorboard creaks and the doorknob turn and you’re out of your seat before the door can open. You crash into his body. Warm and firm his scent crashes around you as a sound escapes him and you pull back.

“Careful,” he mumbles in that deep gravelly voice and leans forward and rests his forehead against yours.

Relief crashes over you and even though you can smell that familiar mix of sweat and blood your whole body relaxes and your racing thoughts ease. Tears begin to sting your eyes.

“Sorry,” you breathe out and snag your fingers in his belt loops as his arms wrap around you, his hands pressing against your back moving you closer.

“Hey, hey..” he mutters, his left hand coming up to press the back of your neck until he tilts your head back and you look into his questioning brown eyes.

“Sorry,” you repeat the same words and shake your head and try to smile. It doesn’t matter now. He’s back. He’s okay.

_He’s alive…_

“Nah, it’s okay,” he mumbles and his hand massages your neck. “I’m an asshole.”

“Shut up,” you mutter as you lean forward and rest your head against his chest where you can hear the reassuring thud of his heart.

You both stand there for a long minute before he gives you a quick kiss to the side of your head and light squeeze. You pull away and can’t help but let your eyes run over his form. He’s okay for the most part. Maybe one of the easiest late nights he’s had with only his right hand slightly discolored and his knuckles spit apart.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” you tilt your head toward the couch and tug on the sleeve of his coat.

He set down heavily and by the slight hitch in his breath, you can tell his ribs are sore. Gently you take off his boots as he removes his jacket and you pull the first aid kit out from beneath the couch. You crouch down in front of him and take his right hand in yours and begin to clean the blood from his skin.

It’s quiet for a moment before you feel his left hand touch your face. You look up at him and see his face pinched and his jaw clenched.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with my shit,” he grumbles as his thumb moves back and forth.

You’re already shaking your head and your words are automatic.

“I want to.”

He stares at you for a long moment and you can’t help but stare back at the face of the man that you’d fallen so hard for. The man that you’d met a year ago and had changed your life. The man with a soft smile and hard righteous anger toward those who broke his moral code.

“Love you, girl.”

His words were soft but deep and you gave him a look.

“You too.”

He leaned back and relaxed as you finished his hand and as you began to pack up the kit he pulled the items from your hands and tossed them on the couch.

“Let’s go to bed. It’s late,” he murmured and tugged you into a standing position and nudging you to walk in front of him.

Not letting his hand go you walk to your bedroom and pull him into bed where he wrapped his arms around you until you both drifted to sleep.


End file.
